The Flea by John Donne. Read by Arthur L Wood

The Flea by John Donne. Please subscribe for more literature. Mark but this flea, and mark in this How little that which thou deniest me is. Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be. Confess it, this cannot be said A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead. Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do. Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, And this our marriage-bed and marriage-temple is. Though parents grudge and you, We are met and cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to this self-murder added be, And sacrilege three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden hast thou since purpled thy nail In blood of innocence. In what could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now. Tis true, then learn how false fears be. Just so much honour were now yield'st to me, Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee. Thank you for watching. Please like and subscribe. Poetry from the Shires, the place for poetry.